Work Text:
Talia Al Ghul had not slept in almost a week. It was impossible to find rest when her father who controlled everything in her world suddenly let her leave him. It was only a matter of time before she was manipulated into returning or otherwise fulfilling his will. Her justified paranoia was only the tip of the iceberg; they still had miles to walk before arriving anywhere they could get a vehicle, much less fly to America. She was also accompanied by a child who would not stop crying. Yes, he just saw his closest friend slaughtered by his own family, and yes, he was just as vulnerable as she was to her father’s plans, but she was at her wits end. The boy was raised around death and survival, surely he could reign it in a bit. She learned a long time ago that emotions were best kept inside until channeled into defending yourself. But nonetheless, her son kept crying. No matter how hard she tried, the tears would return within minutes of calming down from the last outburst.
He wasn’t a loud crier by any means. He barely let out a sniffle when he cried, she was surprised he could breathe. In her opinion, crying feels like being choked while your eyes refuse to clear. She wasn’t upset with him for expressing his emotions, God knows she wants to do the same. But watching her son grieve was overwhelming. She knew how to take care of herself and him of course, but she had hoped she wouldn’t be alone. Jason even confided in her, knowing it was unlikely her father would allow him to live, much less leave with them after participating in their deceit.
In the midst of everything now, Talia feels like she is spread too thin. Everywhere she looks, she sees eyes and shadows following them. She was certain at least 50% of them were real. They decided to make camp in a small clearing in the trees. Normally they would push on, but she felt halfway between not caring anymore and being so on edge she would rip anyone or anything that approached them to shreds.
Damian kept staring into the small fire. He wasn’t crying right now. Honestly, the poor kid was probably too dehydrated. He hadn’t said a word since screaming his brother’s nickname in her ear. Gently, Talia pulled a glass bottle out of her bag.
“Habibi.” The boy looked up. After opening it and taking her own drink, she handed it to him. He inspected the bottle, but there was no label and the color was unclear in the lighting.
“One of the girls in the kitchens made it. It’s very good.”
Still uneasy, the boy took a small sip. He made a strange face. Not out of disgust, more that he had no way of communicating his opinion right now.
“She called it limonana. She used lemons from the gardens to make it.”
Damian nodded, taking another sip before handing the bottle to his mother. He began tapping a random rhythm on his knee.
“You may sleep beside me tonight. No need to keep watch, there are eyes everywhere already.”
Once again he nodded. Every so often the trees rustled, confirming their suspicions.
Laying a bedroll down, Talia sat next to her child. Unsurprisingly, a few more tears fell down his face. Running her fingers through his hair, she watched him fall asleep. When she was sure he was out, that’s when she let herself go.
She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. She felt so, so angry. She was the one who brought him into this world. She was the one who let him get close to a boy doomed to die. Maybe if she wasn’t born a woman, her father wouldn’t have made her struggle so much. Maybe she wouldn’t have to watch the child she wanted to have on her own terms, with someone she loved, be crushed by expectations and forced to be an heir to violence. She loves her baby’s father, of course she did, but she hurt him so badly. He doesn’t even know he has a child, much less that she lied to him repeatedly so that she could use him for his body.
She wants to tell herself she had no choice, but that would be a lie. Every threat her father made was either empty or negligible. No matter how scared he made her, her father would never let her die. He would just toss her in the pit again. And letting her father kill the man she loved wouldn’t be as unforgivable as taking advantage of him like she did. He had no idea that she never wanted to have sex, even though she was the one constantly pushing the subject. She told him she loved him, but she was only using him to get pregnant. And the day she found out she was, she planned to jump off the northeastern watchtower. Instead, she got locked in her room while they took her unborn child from her to grow like a science experiment.
She wanted to rip her insides out; she was sobbing now. Everyone she loves, she hurts, and even now she can’t make what she is putting her son through any better. Waving her hand in front of her face, she was not surprised that her eyes were giving off a green glow. With a ragged breath, she leaned over to where her bag sat.
“Medicine time. God.” She whispered, wiping tears from her face with one hand. She pulled a small, almost jar shaped bottle out. Uncorking it, she took a sip before setting it down and closing her eyes.
When she was a teenager, she found out that if you mixed Lazarus water with any basic poison, it would subdue pit symptoms. She later figured it had something to do with her body working to eliminate the substance instead of getting to her mind. The extra Lazarus water would then cover up any symptoms from the poison, while also making the overall effect of the mixture last longer.
She coughed a little. It always made her throat scratchy for a minute or two. When she used it on Jason, he never complained of that. On one hand the kid’s throat was probably a wreck despite the pit’s repairs, but he also tried to tell her that no, potatoes shouldn’t do that. He then went on a rant about allergies, which she is pretty sure are fake. She had seen a man stay alive after being nearly decapitated, but apparently certain foods can kill certain people. Not all people, just some poor soul who got unlucky in the genetic lottery.
Realizing the shift in her thoughts, she recognized the medicine was working. She lay back down on the bedroll, again letting Damian’s hair. In a rare time in her son’s life, she held him close. Unfortunately, he would not know he’d been hugged in the morning, when she wakes before him to get their stuff together.